what he says is not worth considering, or at least appears so.
Frivolity alone, the habit of romancing to all the pretty women he
finds in his way, makes him talk. Love counts for nothing, or at least
for very little, in all his liaisons. Like the butterfly, he hovers
only a moment over each flower. An amusing episode is his only object.
So much frivolity is not capable of alarming a woman. She is delighted
at the trifling danger she incurs in listening to such a man.

The Countess knows very well how to appreciate the discourse of the
Chevalier; and to say everything in a word, she knows him to be a man
whose heart is worn out. Women, who, to hear them talk, go in more for
metaphysics, know admirably how to tell the difference between a lover
of his class and a man like you. But you will always be more
formidable and more to be dreaded by your manner of making yourself
felt.

You boast to me of your respectful esteem, but I reply that it is
nothing of the kind, and the Countess knows it well. Nothing ends with
so little respect as a passion like yours. Quite different from the
Chevalier, you require recognition, preference, acknowledgment, even
sacrifices. The Countess sees all these pretensions at a glance, or at
least, if in the cloud which still envelops them, she does not
distinguish them clearly, nature gives her a presentiment of what the
cost will be if she allows you the least opportunity to instruct her
in a passion which she doubtless already shares. Women rarely inquire
into the reasons which impel them to give themselves up or to resist;
they do not even amuse themselves by trying to understand or explain
them, but they have feelings, and sentiment with them is correct, it
takes the place of intelligence and reflection. It is a sort of
instinct which warns them in case of danger, and which leads them
aright perhaps as surely as does the most enlightened reason. Your
beautiful Adelaide wishes to enjoy an incognito as long as she can.
This plan is very congenial to her real interests, and yet I am fully
persuaded that it is not the work of reflection. She sees it only from
the point of view of a passion, outwardly constrained, making stronger
impressions and still greater progress inwardly. Let it have an
opportunity to take deep root, and give to this fire she tries to
hide, time to consume the heart in which you wish to confine it.

You must also admit, Marquis, that you deceive yourself in two ways
in y